Chapitre 371: Overlooked Future Stars
On the night before their trip to Japan, Aldrich attended poker night as usual. Tonight, luck was on his side, and he won three thousand five hundred pounds. As he and Yvonne returned to the community, they spotted someone sitting on the steps in front of his house.
Once Yvonne got out of the car and recognized the figure at Aldrich's doorstep, she turned around, said goodnight, and headed straight home.
As Aldrich walked out of the garage, the person at the door also stood up. He glanced at his watch; it was already past eleven. What was C Ronaldo doing here at such a late hour?
"What's wrong?"
Aldrich approached, puzzled about what brought Ronaldo here.
C Ronaldo kept his head down, seemingly struggling to find the words.
"Did someone bully you?" Aldrich asked.
C Ronaldo shook his head.
"Missing your mom?" Aldrich probed further.
C Ronaldo hesitated for a moment but shook his head again.
Aldrich grew a little impatient. "Then say something."
Finally, C Ronaldo lifted his head, his gaze wandering. He whispered, "I'd like to borrow some money."
Borrow money?
He trained at Millwall, where the club took care of all his living, educational, and various expenses. Aldrich had signed him to an apprentice contract with a salary, although it was just a token amount—under two hundred pounds a month. Cristiano insisted on sending this small sum straight home every month. What he was unaware of was that Aldrich had already given his family five hundred thousand pounds for free when he arrived at Millwall and helped his brother get off drugs. After his brother's successful recovery, his family managed to run a small business in Portugal, improving their lives significantly.
The kid was clearly in a pinch for cash. Why not ask his family for it?
He must think that they're still in tough financial shape.
Aldrich, curious about the situation, questioned, "What do you need the money for?"
C Ronaldo, now just three months shy of turning fourteen, definitely needed more than just a drink or snack.
He hesitated again, and Aldrich was starting to lose his patience. C Ronaldo timidly stepped inside.
Sitting on the couch, Aldrich said, "Tell me how much you need."
"Three hundred pounds. Two hundred pounds would be fine too," C Ronaldo replied quietly.
Aldrich was speechless.
The future eighty-million-pound star was suddenly so bashful over a couple of hundred pounds.
"Where do you plan to spend this money?" Aldrich asked.
C Ronaldo sat down and sheepishly said, "I want to buy a camera—a better one, a more expensive one."
Aldrich chuckled at this.
He understood what C Ronaldo wanted. He was not only proud but also quite vain; among the youth team, he had the flashiest hairstyles, changing them daily. During team photos, he strut around like a runway model.
He was a young guy, after all. It was easy to see why; he was destined to be the typical affluent heartthrob.
Aldrich went upstairs and returned after a while with a camera, placing it in C Ronaldo's hands. "This is the new digital camera I bought when I traveled in the summer. It just came out this year. You can play with it for a couple of days to get familiar with the features."
C Ronaldo stared at the brand-new camera, something he hadn't handled often. The photos Aldrich took in Switzerland had already been printed out, leaving the camera unused.
He fiddled with it, clearly enchanted.
He just wanted his own camera so he could take more pictures to share with his family when they went to Japan. He admitted he was a bit showy, but perhaps it stemmed from the tough conditions he faced in childhood; the things he was proud of were the moments he wanted to capture, almost as if they were trophies of his achievements.
"How much did this cost?" he asked after a bit of fiddling.
Aldrich shook his head. "This is a gift, you don't have to pay for it. If you need anything else that won't lead you astray, just tell me. I know your life here is really lonely, and developing some hobbies will be very helpful for your growth."
C Ronaldo nodded silently. They chatted for a while longer, but as it grew late, Aldrich invited him to stay the night.
Before going to bed, C Ronaldo charged the camera's battery and took shirtless selfies in front of the mirror. He had grown a bit stronger and taller, and even though he hadn't turned fourteen yet, his physical condition was comparable to that of sixteen-year-olds. This had led to thoughts of wanting to "take charge" in the U16 team. As soon as De Rossi graduated from U16, the captain's armband would likely be passed to C Ronaldo.
The next day, the entire Millwall team boarded a chartered flight to Tokyo, Japan.
This time, Millwall's players were dressed uniformly. Even Messi and Aguero donned tailored suits. Though their small frames didn't make them seem particularly handsome in suits, they certainly looked adorable.
There was a bit of a mix-up at boarding; someone was late.
Not a player, but a coach.
Boas had arrived nearly half an hour late, disheveled and rushing onto the plane with a suitcase in hand. By that time, everyone was already seated. The first-team players appeared composed, unlike the youth and makeshift elite teams who hadn't seen much of the world. C Ronaldo was busy taking photos, while De Rossi, ever so mature, approached Materazzi to join Pirlo and Gattuso for poker. Messi and Aguero were engrossed in an animated movie on the portable DVD player Aldrich had given them two months prior—yes, the entire series of "Captain Tsubasa"—while younger players like Jenas and Tallec laid back, equally entertained...
Boas crammed his luggage into an overhead bin and repeatedly apologized to his fellow coaches.
Aldrich and Klinsmann were playing poker too. When Boas approached to apologize, Aldrich turned and was momentarily shocked.
"You okay? Are you ill?" Klinsmann asked, concern evident.
Boas, looking pale with swollen eyes and red veins, clearly hadn't rested well.
He sat down across from Jensen, signaled that he was fine as the plane took off, and pulled out a stack of reports to hand to Aldrich.
Aldrich paused his game, accepted the reports, and glanced at them in surprise. "You didn't sleep?"
Boas nodded slightly.
Aldrich sighed. "You're a workaholic."
The report in his hands was an opponent analysis that Boas had tirelessly prepared over several days.
Unlike the opponents in the Premier League or domestic cup matches, knowing your adversaries in the Toyota Cup was not so easily accomplished. Millwall's competitor this time was Vasco da Gama from Brazil, making direct observation impossible.
While Aldrich's obsession with the Toyota Cup wasn't immense, it was clear he wanted to return with a trophy from Japan, holding no significant regard for Vasco da Gama.
There were two reasons for this. First, he needed Millwall to seize the initiative. Second, the strength of South American teams was rapidly declining. Post-Bosman ruling, the frequency with which South American talent entered Europe had risen. After all, players could earn more in Europe, and transfers had become much easier, all of which had a direct relation to increases in broadcasting revenues that made European clubs financially stable.
The weighty report in Aldrich's hands made him feel a bit guilty.
Though it may seem of little value, gathering more information about opponents would indeed help devise more tactical preparations and improve their chances in the match.
Boas didn't perceive his late-night work on the report as a tremendous contribution; rather, he viewed it as part of his job and something he was expected to do.
His younger coaching colleagues envied Boas immensely; the Millwall coaching staff had long been an ideal for aspiring young coaches. Many hopefuls wished to collaborate with Aldrich, eager to exclude less compatible mentors; Aldrich's reputation in coaching circles was impeccable, as evidenced by the flood of job applications during the summer hiring period.
"The flight lasts over twelve hours; you should get some rest," Aldrich advised, putting away the reports. He couldn't work onboard. Boas' work ethic was commendable, even inspiring; behind a successful team lies such dedication.
After fetching a light blanket, Boas sat in an empty seat in the corner and closed his eyes to rest.
"Man, that kid's so dedicated; it seriously stresses me out," Klinsmann expressed.
Aldrich waved a hand dismissively. "Everyone's situation is different."
"Things are definitely different. Klinsmann has had a stellar playing career, so it's not a big deal if his coaching doesn't pan out. But for people like Villas-Boas, if they can't succeed in this field, it's not that they can't get by, but the gap in life's achievements will be quite harsh.
It was the same as Aldrich once told Barnett: if one can't be a successful head coach, they might as well coast through life as a playboy.
You have to go all in!"
The hours on the plane stretched on, bordering on torturous.
After roughly fourteen hours of flying, they finally arrived in Tokyo, Japan.
The future Narita International Airport was still known as Tokyo International Airport then, a buzzing hub filled with countless Japanese and international media reporters, along with throngs of fans.
When the entire Millwall team, led by Aldrich, emerged, the crowd erupted in deafening cheers.
Flashes lit up the space, and thunderous applause echoed in the air.
Not only were the reporters stunned, but fans—especially female supporters—jumped with excitement.
Who said Millwall football team was here?
It was clearly the Millwall male model team!
From Aldrich to the first-team players, everyone wore dark blue suits flaunting the Millwall crest on their left chest.
Aldrich, Klinsmann, Boas, Jensen, Pirlo, Nedved, Larsson, Lampard, Southgate, Schneider, Butt...
"Regardless of how picky women can be, in this place, there's always a handsome man who can drive them crazy!
"Millwall!"
"Aldrich Hall!"
"Pavel Nedved!"
"Henrik Larsson!"
...
The noise was a jumbled mess. Shouts of those calling out for specific players collided, merging into a cacophony.
Aldrich wasn't trying to be cool; he flashed a smile and waved at the fans waiting for them at the airport. The players trailing behind him just gave a quick nod, not wanting to be left out of the moment.
As they headed outside, the crowd flooded out like a tide, excitement crackling in the air.
As the youth team followed the first team out, the elite juniors finally made their appearance.
Cristiano Ronaldo, camera dangling from his neck, stood there with a scowl, frustrated as he watched the group ahead dart after the first team, who were rapidly distancing themselves.
Jenas wandered over, curiosity evident. "What are you doing just standing there?"
Cristiano replied, annoyed, "We're players for Millwall too!"
Messi and Aguero, those two charming lads in their suits, also paused, glancing back.
It was somewhat painful to witness. They looked like ignored wildflowers along the side of the road, tossed aside in the hustle and bustle.
Nagy lagged behind the crowd, noticing the youth players standing at the exit, unmoving while the larger group surged forward to follow the first team. He quickly understood what was going on.
These youngsters, once the stars of the youth leagues, had their pride hurt.
Nagy walked up to C Ronaldo and patted him on the shoulder with a faint smile. "Remember today; those who turned away will regret it."
C Ronaldo nodded emphatically, and the others shared his resolute expression.
Who doesn't care about fame? Who doesn't want to be more recognized and impactful?
These lads, feeling "hurt" at that moment, were determined to make the faces of fans who didn't even spare them a glance regret it!
Nagy was quite delighted; stimulating this group of kids brought him joy.
Just wait, and see—ten years from now, who won't know their names!
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone